


Leash

by Ladycat



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Completed, Consent Issues, Control Issues, M/M, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:28:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat





	1. Chapter 1

He’d twisted around during the night, his hands still bound behind him, one arm crushed between his weight and the chair, while metal cuffs anchored him to the floor.  Why the chains had been so readily available had been disturbing on levels that didn’t bear close examining.  Good little girls, even those with supernatural destinies, should not be able to procure extensive sets of manacles nor handle them with such ease.

Too bad it hadn’t stopped at merely ‘disturbing’.  To find only ‘disturbing’ so early in the night should have been a clue that ‘surreal’ and ‘hair-raising’ were lurking about, waiting for their entrance.

Whining and bitching hours before sleep had resulted in the removal of the torn black shirt and the gift of too-large sweat pants.  Pants which had slipped their way down past pale, narrow hips to rest loosely over thighs.  Every twitch brought them a little lower, driving sanity further away with ever millimeter exposed..

Faint light snuck in around windows and doors, the yellow street-lamps giving just enough illumination that shapes were fuzzily distinguishable.  Anything wet glistened. 

It wasn’t the light, though, the way it moved and broke, reforming to dazzle a beat later.  It wasn’t even the smell, thick and heavy as it gained in competition against mildew and dust.

It was the sounds.

Low, desperate sounds, almost falsetto in their urgency, over and over again to the rapid cadence of a heart that did not beat.  Sounds that were animalistic, frustration driving higher functions into deep recess while instinct clutched tighter and tighter.  The sounds of something cornered and trapped and so very desperate for whatever  _it_  was desired.

Soon the ‘sh, sh’ of fabric rubbing harshly on vinyl joined the sounds.

Sanity edged its way out the door, ushered by the sights and the smells and the  _sounds_.

Creeping to the edge of the bed, two eyes remained focused on the scintillating light, a beacon in the maelstrom of scent so strong it drenched the room.  Hands twitched but did not move, supporting warm weight they wanted to be free of.  Images flashed through a fevered mind, and abruptly a head moved, shaking violently to dismiss the vivid instructions.

Except they weren’t actually being dismissed.

Thud, thud, thud.  One heart beat in furious rhythm to the shush, shush, shush of smooth skin and soft fleece on shiny slick vinyl.  It wouldn’t be so horrible to touch, would it?  There were benefits, after all.  Lots of benefits.  Really, there were.

The sounds broke for a moment, although the movements did not, leaving utter stillness in their wake.  The sound of quick panting grew acidic in the abrupt silence.  Just as suddenly the sounds returned, louder this time, and the movements took on a more frantic edge.  The desperation climbed higher and higher and suddenly it was obvious.  What had to be done.  It wasn’t about right or wrong, good or bad.

Just want.  And need.

There were no instructions from mind to limbs, just the knowledge that kneeling on the cold concrete, pressed up against a chair that looked grey but was red in sunlight, was a good thing.  One trembling hand moved through the darkness to trail fingers in the glittering light’s refractions, feeling wet and warmish though the skin.  The low whimpers became a gasp.

“Please. . .”

Freezing at the quiet, mumbled word, body stretched out just enough to touch the slumbering figure trapped in metal and vinyl.  The voice was different, higher, softer; the signature accent mutated into something posh and refined.

The change were intoxicating.  To hear that voice again, that begging whimpering voice, just one more touch couldn’t hurt. . . could it?

Movement, faster now, under the lingering fingers, so much that air stirred from it, creating coolness where there should be none.  The brief thought that this frantic lunging was the most fruitless of all actions, driven by a mind that truly was unaware of what the body did.  The incessant working against frictionless air, the tireless body unable to bank on pain or exhaustion to impel a different position.

It would take just one movement, tight muscles pulling just a little to make the actions much more. . . rewarding.

But the smooth, long muscles that were fuzzy outlines in the dim light didn’t have to move, now.  Not now.  Because the tips of fingers had become their entirety, the calloused ridges curled beneath coming into play.

“Yes, god, please.  There.”

The constant movements from the chair did not gain speed, but seemed somehow to become harder.  Deeper.  Stronger.  The shushing sound was drowned out by the scrap and suck of rough on sticky wet.

“More.”

Muscles contracted, bringing palm flush with silky, sticky skin, squeezing against a bumpy vein. . . just a little.  Disjointed thoughts circled around incredulous disbelief into detached curiosity.  Both sets of actions were inexplicable, and despite a more than passing acquaintance with the phenomenon of  _inexplicable_ , this time it did not rest easy.  The first motions could be ascribed to instinct—dreams were powerful motivators, a slumbering body unresistant to hidden whims.

The second, however, had to be more than just morbid curiosity.  That would have resulted in watching. . . not touching.  Not moving so flushed, sweating skin could rest against cool vinyl, poised above and behind the twisting jerking body, yet still able to comfortably allow one hand to remain exactly where it had started.

“Please. . . more.”

The brush of something cold jolted attention out of vexing concepts—into a more distressing understanding.  The light was just enough that pale round things were seen, white inches from flushed pink, moving in tandem with the never ceasing twitches.  Instead of going  _‘up’_ , however, these went  _‘in’_ , and  _‘back’._

Memory surged, a conversation facilitated by burning harsh liquid, and preferences established.  At the time it had resulted in aversion and embarrassment, but the seed had been planted and ideas had already taken root.  

Ideas that screamed to be acted on.

Shifting weight onto a single hip was bad, so a leg was thrown over shivering thighs.  Straddled, but not touching, a second hand reached joined the first, concentrating on the wettest, stickiest part.  Stroking it, rubbing a single digit all over it.  The long, drawn out cry caused instant stillness.  “Please.  Please.”

Wet and sticky from nail to the second knuckle, the second hand reached around to find the place the ‘back’ and ‘in’ motions protected.  Slowly, very slowly, wetness was pressed against something so very tiny and delicate.

The tip slipped through.

“Yes, please.  God, please. . .”  The whimpers became tearless sobs and for the first time awareness showed something else that glittered and danced in the light.  Breathy moans became nonstop movements, ragged under dual pressure.

Tight, ringed pressure around the first knuckle.

“Harder, please, please, harder.  Please!”

It wasn’t a demand.  A demand. . . would have made an odd kind of sense in the deep, rough voice that used to inspire fear and dread.  In this voice, mewling high and elegant, it was a request.  A supplication.  A plea.  The despairing cry of need for something that would not come.  Not without help.

The pressure stopped just above the second knuckle.  Without any further prompting, an additional bit of movement allowed cool air to touch a recently released first knuckle.  It then sank back into tight, squishy coolness that grabbed at it as it moved a third time.

“Another.  Please, more.  Fuck me. . .”

“Am.”  The word was rough, gruff from a throat full of things best left ignored.  The desperate sounds grew worse.

“More.”

“When I want.”  In and out and squeeze and up and down and twist.  Another sound of longing and a laugh bubbled up from no where.  “When I want—not before.”

If anything, the sounds increased at the edge within the words.  “Yes.”

“Do you want more?”

“Yes!”

“More of what?  Harder?”  Squeeze, tight and hard, provoking a cry muffled into a padded vinyl arm.

“Yes.”  A breathy prayer of received forgiveness.  “That.”

“Or more of this?”  Bone dry, still the second finger slid in easily, stretching further.  Aching knees gave out, weight lowering to rest on trembling muscle.  The groan of pleasure caught both unaware and the heavy muscle underneath tensed and moved.  Another groan, another twitch, silky hairs scraping on rough, smooth skin rubbing to the sounds of shush and scrap and squish.

“Yes.  Please!  More. . .”

Thrust in, thrust on, twist up and down with the remaining appendage.

“My choice,” was whispered into the heavy air, sliding into brains that could barely comprehend the meaning.  “Mine.”

“Yours.  Yours.  Choose.  Please choose.”  Archaic accent, familiar voice, utterly raw and defenseless.  Dependent.

“I choose. . .”  Stretch to accommodate another finger.  Increase pressure just enough that moans became gasps.  “Both.”

“Yours.”

In and out.  Forward and back.  Up and down.  Three sets of movements, joined together, timed so that one caused the other.  Underneath it all was writhing and twisting, into and away from, enhancing the movements, driving them faster and harder and frantic.  The harsh sound of breathing, panted sobs, the clink of metal striking solid resistance, and the low constant begging for more.

Something was missing.  Rocking, a liquified mind attempted to voice the bubbling need.  “Whose?”

“Yours.” 

“Whose?”

 _“Yours.”_

Savage twist of three digit, palm and fingers squeezing to pop the reddened head, provoking a scream, a cry of, “Master!”

Burning heat splashed against hip and thigh, lukewarm and sticky coating a clenched fist.

Awareness returned.  True awareness, and the dream state of need and want faded into aching shock and embarrassment.  A body scrambled off and away, a rickety wooden door slamming behind the retreat.

In the darkness, blue eyes opened wide, a twisted body stretching in contented relaxation, even enjoying the metal freezing into wrists and ankles.  Very nice, that had been.  And without too much prompting, either.

Spike smiled as he drifted back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Steady pressure, sliding up and down with sure, even insistence.  Arm working tirelessly, unable to stop unless told, focused on the pulsing warmth it stroked.  Blunt fingers, resting on soft curls freed of manmade confinement, tightened slightly.  Their heat branded a cool scalp, pressure bending a yielding neck.  Tiny, tiny touches that shouted out silent commands.

Wet and cool slid down to suckle the pulsing tip, the slow strokes continuing roughened skin brushing against soft lips on the upstroke.  This fierce, powerful beauty reduced to whimpering as it moved in response to those tiny touches.  Actions scripted to fine detail, keeping arousal a dim background hum while more important matters were attended to.

Xander turned the page.

Bobbing up and down brought cracked, aged dead skin to repeatedly thump against unlined, aged dead skin.  The offending object would not be moved, despite the regular jolts, and the angle could not be changed, not without permission.  But blue eyes never looked above dark brown curls.  Borrowed blood filled the area that was repeatedly hit, turning it dark and painful.  Whines, almost dog-like in pitch, vibrated against an object of reverence, wordless gratitude for the growing hurt.

“Faster.”

The dull, thudding sound grew more frequent, the whimpering cries spiraling with it.  A foot encased in hard, steel-toed leather moved just enough that it slid between thighs to locate a swollen bulge—and pressed the toe up, flattening the swelling back against bone.  Hard.  A sharp cry, a twitch, and the breathy begging took on an air of veneration, wetness increasing as the sounds made hardness impossibly harder.

The chapter was nearly completed when the old book was abruptly shut and tossed onto the bed.  Two convenient hand-holds were grabbed, forcing the wet suction to sink down completely.  Choked off groans competed with the aria below, a symphony of supine mastery.

As a long, pink tongue delicately lapped glistening flesh clean, dark eyes looked down for the first time.  “We’re going out.”

Hands resumed the steady stroking, ostensibly to soak up moisture.  Obsequious rapture gleamed from eyes gone colorless in reflected glory, the begging returning to wing its way through the still air.

“We’re going out.”  A hint of growled warning, and the begging became instant supplication.  “Hey.”  Standing, calloused hands pulled the crouching body upward, unsurprised when eyes dropped and became fascinated with cracked concrete.  “I take care of you.”

The younger voice held in it the unspoken command to remember the week past.  Rules and boundaries had been established; hot, fiery pleasure forcing pain into acceptable retreat.  One hand burned into a black-clad shoulder, holding the unmoving body steady as the other snaked south to cup the source of exquisite agony.  Gentle, gentle touches, so gentle that it was worse than any pain, whisked along distended denim.

“Mine.”

“Yours.”  The unspoken word that followed screamed through sex-scented silence, and a hip was instantly cocked, thrusting a thigh to rub up against the beginnings of renewed interest.  Flex and twitch produced a groan—and a wicked smile.

“Tease.”

“Yours.”

They left, walking slowly until limbs relearned how to move with slightly rearranged anatomy.  Purposeful swagger developed where none had been before, proud of the increase instead of hiding it.  Following was shrunken bravado, burning pain creating panting pleasure.

Their destination was dark and dirty.  It should have produced unease or outright fear to the one who had been a nervous, bumbling boy not a week before.  Instead it slid on like second skin, leaving the one who  _should_  have felt comfortable feeling alone and out of place.  Drinks were ordered and sipped as they scanned the crowded bar.

“There.”  Casual and comfortable, subtly pointing out the goal the book had indicated.  “Think you can handle that?”

“Yes.”  Again, the unspoken word drifted through smoke and noise.

“Good.”

Unvoiced plans created, they moved apart to ghost through gyrating bodies, sweat slicking their paths.  Arriving at their destinations, one goaded while the other waited.  The one who waited called upon skills hard-learned to lie with eyes and cheeks and lips.  The hidden concern was new, unusual and unwelcome, yet it slithered and snaked through long-dead organs and would not be dislodged.  The risk was great, and there were many yards and a wall between predator and protection.

Yet the door soon opened, revealing horns and slime and protruding parts, followed by blank-faced control.  Anxiety fled into heated purpose and the threat the Watcher and his Slayer had bemoaned so continuously was quickly and efficiently removed.

Harsh breathing broke the red-tinged aura, bringing back the empty alley way and the human less than two feet away.  Remaining crouched, attention was turned towards the electrifying sounds, the heat and fire provoking a straining reaction.  A tentative question whined into the cool night air.

“Good,” came the gruff response, further words lost as the door again opened and three figures full of blood and breath and sweat exited the crowded mass indoors.

Drunken assumptions took in the tableau, ignoring strange lumps and colors that were out of place even in jaundiced shadows, just one man, aroused and confident, with another crouching in submissive adoration at his feet.  Drunken hate took over, bravado hurling insults at figures that did not respond.  The lack made them bolder, wilder in their rage, kicking up refuse with feet and mouths.

The silence lasted until tainted hands reached out to take what the crouching figure offered.

A flurry of movement, skills useless against superior strength and speed, more than adequate against drunken husks.  Scattered under the onslaught of honed rage, only two remained—one too frightened to do more than scent the air with ammonia, the other dependent on alcoholic-fueled confidence to wield a six-inch knife.

Wrist grabbed, twisted, and a new, more confident grip on the plastic hilt drove one attacker to collapse in fear.  The other continued to struggle until, already cut on both arms, he was punched full in the face.  He dropped to lie unmoving beside his companion.

Smells warred in the confined area, providing their own intoxicating mixture.  The decay of waste, some human-made, both fresh and old; the base for the sweet, sweet scent of coppery terror.  The whine returned, nearly inaudible, and the wicked smile twisted innocent features.  “Drink.”

Hairless features lifted up to stare in stunned surprise—before hurriedly obeying.

Desperate mouth, long starved and forced to live on swill fastened over the leaking wound to suck and suck and suck.  No teeth, never teeth despite their razored sharpness, but hot, rich, burning taste splashed over deadened nerves, running in crimson trails down baby soft skin.

Dilated eyes watched with breathless heat as mindless thrusting against nothing joined the wet sucking.  Familiar sounds and motions led to familiar responses.  High-pitched whines overpowered the wet, drawn out sounds of suck and pull, and that too fueled the overwhelming need to press and touch and claim.

A low moan of pained waking caused noise and movement to still.  Panic crossed over the monster’s face, forced circumstances denying previous options, but the human merely smiled.  Warm hands lifted the knife to send it crashing down to land solidly on the temple of the waking body, the second one hit as well to ensure privacy.

“More?”  Desperate whining sounded out in answer, making the confident smile grow wider.

Dull, gleaming edge dragged through soft, buttery skin, spilling a bounty of scarlet pleasure.  A steady call of breathless hallelujah as a grasping, greedy mouth sucked at twin fountains.

“Don’t kill them.”  Two more taps with the hilt, one more slice with the blade, and logic slowly forced the possessive desire to release its hold.  Shaking hands removed traces of person from the scene while verifying that the grey, sickly pallor was not the chalkiness of death.

Satisfied that neither would be able to identify their attackers—a dark hat had already covered conspicuous locks—the trip back was rapid, driven by nerves that smoked and burned.

Reaching home, the smaller figure was shoved down broken stairs, landing in a dazed heap, then hauled up and thrown bodily onto the more yielding mattress.  Hands, shaking from need, yanked off offending black jeans and pulled soft round globes into easy position.

“Master!”  The cry was pure joy through the pain of entry softened only slightly by natural secretions.  Rough and hard, harsh grunts of control mixed with whimpers of worshipful gratitude.  Large, warm hands slid underneath the bucking body, squeezing tightly in a confused need for sharing and purchase, all at once.  In and out and back and forward, slowly coated by sweat and drops of streaked crimson, the frantic movements shook the room, the returned symphony swelling up in grand crescendo of need and take and give.

“Mine.”

“Yours.”  A further twitch and words crowded a tight throat.  “Only yours.”

“Mine.”  Grunt of ownership.

“Never share?”  Well paid teachers echoed in perfectly formed syllables, tone and inflection carefully controlled.

The howl of rage was an eloquent response.

“Always?”

Thrusts became even more brutal, pushing bent knees straight, trapping hands between double weight and savage force and, like before, there was no other answer needed.

Another word, the last word, pushed past throat muscles, to shape lips and tongue mashed down into worn cotton.  “Again?”

It should not have been heard, lost in broken fibers and rusted springs, buried under the continuous cries that vibrated the throat even while forcing out the single word.  It should have died under the authoritative sound of thrust and moan and pant.

It didn’t.

It slid inside, trapped within the sea of instinct, of animal intensity, of liquid thoughts that burned with white-hot heat, focused on the tight, grasping flesh that yielded so prettily.  The word echoed there.  No disgust greeted the hesitant request, made with the knowledge that whatever the answer, nothing would change.  Nothing  _wanted_  to change.  This was the begging desire to fill a need that could not otherwise be fulfilled.  Not without help.

Voices rose up in sharp denial, the strident cry of feminine disapproval, combined with softly accented explanations and persuasive reasoning.  Lessons imprinted on an impressionable mind recounted themselves in harmony.

The voices were easily banished under the sound of that soft, mewling cry of want and need.  Of pleasure and pain so tightly knit they joined, a Gregorian chant not to an unseen, unfelt presence but one seen and most definitely felt.  The one who created the pain and the pleasure, who fulfilled the want and the need, and was fulfilled by it.

Muscles clenched, ignoring the circling question, warned by the loss of violent rhythm and uncontrollable shaking.  The soft sounds increased, driving the pleasure up even higher for the one who took.  “Mine!” was howled into sweat-shiny skin, essence rushing from one to the other to lie pooled on worn fabric, soaking into pale skin.  It was long minutes before movement could be contemplated, the pounding heart echoing through two chests, while gulping gasps melded with ever-present cries.

Resigned to no answer, the one who gave followed previous orders, cleaning up and curling up at the bottom of the bed.  A toe poked into a rib staved off impending dreams, bringing back abrupt awareness.  Two eyes gleamed in dawning light, unreadable reflections.

“Come here.”  The lithe body, strong now from an unexpected banquet, crawled to lie lengthwise next to simmering warmth.  Strong arms pulled cool flesh closer, removing the barrier of several inches of fresh, dry sheets.

“Master.”  An inadequate offering of gratitude, forehead pressed against a collarbone, ear poised to listen to the beat of a contented heart.  Large hands stroked over soft hair, down cool skin to tickle and play with discovered imperfections on a bloodless back.

“You liked that?”

“Yes, master.”  Hints of a worshipful aria from hours before.

“Me, too.”  Hands tightened their hold in possessive fervor.  “All of it.”  Rhythmic in and out, bathing classic features in wet warmth.  “That bar had a lot of demons.  We could go after them in a few days.”

 _Click._

“Yes, master.”

The sleeping human did not hear it, but the vampire did.  The sound of a collar, dangling open for so long, snapping shut.  Snug and firm against a long, pale neck, it soothed the jagged fears that not even a rich meal could not ease.  The vague uncertainties of a risky plan vanished, leaving the contented feeling of a job well done.

Relaxed into purring repose, Spike laid his head on his master’s chest, and let the heartbeat lull him to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Bright, cozy light from the ceiling and table-lamps made the room feel warm.  Lived in.  Almost. . . homey.  Bodies sprawled in comfortable positions as books disintegrating with age were studied.  Girls in an untidy heap on the sofa, so intertwined that it was impossible to tell which limbs went with blonde, brown, or red.  Glasses, half full of innocent carbonation, made rainbows against the faux Tiffany lamp.

On the floor, dark hair rested against the side of the sofa, just barely visible if someone were to stretch, length of body disappearing into the darkened shadows the last occupant hid in.  The unusual insistence for keeping the shades up and open had shocked wide-eyed girls into wary nervousness—given the noonday sun beating down with fierce California intensity—but weeks of odd behavior had brought familiarity out to breed.

So long as there were no complaints, they didn’t care anyway.

The utter dismissal they exhibited for something that was neither powerful nor interestingly bothersome was useful.  It made the current act, refined over weeks of practice, enjoyably devious.

Long legs, growing heavier from hidden activities, stretched into the shadows.  Close examination would have shown the gentle back and forth of material disturbed by moving muscles.  Light upon the shadows would have revealed the trailing laces of an empty work boot, positioned to block the actions its released foot made.  Slowly, so slowly, with barely enough pressure to do anything, it moved back and forth.  An interested observer would have seen eyes tightly closed, heard choking sounds barely muffled by four fingers jammed into a drooling mouth.

Had any of those that called themselves friends glanced behind the sofa, they would have been shocked at the malicious glee that shone from downcast eyes.  The dainty, teasing touches of soft, sweaty cotton on uncovered skin.  Hints of red as naked flesh was rubbed against the cruel metal teeth that framed it; the pain in the muted sounds lacking any vestige of pleasure.

Xander smiled.  Were this some other couple, some other relationship, the basic actions would have been extremely graphic for public display, but understandable; even affectionate.  One partner pleasuring the other, the spice of being seen adding additional heat.

While the latter part was true, the former was not.  The arousal that forced blood into stiffened exposure came from the passion in black eyes, the bulge against drawstring pants, and the intoxicating scent that the humans somehow ignored.  The intense pain of cut and brush on sensitized skin was a factor, of course, just as much as the fear of being caught.  Yet the heat, the fire that burned along pale skin, came solely from the figure resting not three feet away.

Toes covered in worn fabric dragged down into denim-encased darkness, burrowing past rounded heaviness to begin the light brushes again, this time pressed against a smooth strip of skin not much larger than the toe itself.  An idea occurred and the foot arched, pressing the delicate bones up into hypersensitive skin.

Blue eyes bugged out, all sounds stopping as unneeded air choked in motionless lungs.  Newly sharpened teeth slid into flesh, crunching against bone.  Nearly unseeing from torturous sensations, eyes fastened on the smirk the torturer wore, reveling in the sensuality, the superiority, the  _sex_  on a face that had formerly been innocent.

Master was happy.

The pain did not abate but gradually tense muscles undid themselves as pleasure in Master’s pleasure made the pain. . . desirable.  For Master’s pleasure, anything could—and would—be endured.

“Buffy, did you go into Restfield last night?”  The question, full of polished curiosity, did not stop the game untimely—conversations rarely included either of those on the floor.

“Restfield?  No, not last night.  Why?”

“Three men—humans—were found dead there last night.  They died of blood loss—except there was suspiciously little blood around the bodies.”

“Three?  Somebody was having a party last night.”

“Ordinarily I’d say yes, although the report suggests the bodies had been moved, however. . .”

“However what?  Giles?”

“The bodies had been slashed—with a knife, the coroner believes.  Only two bodies bore bite marks, and neither was on the neck—one on the leg, the other on the chest above the heart.”

 _That_  caused stillness.

The three men in question had been unable to stop watching two bodies writhing and twisting to the beat of the house DJ.  With the horrified fascination of those watching a car accident, they had witnessed a hand stroke where a foot now rubbed, causing an explosion of sights and sounds at a single spoken command.  Upon receiving a mocking wink while the mess was cleaned up, they had fallen into the disturbed rage of the sexually threatened.

Following an hour-long car chase, they’d ended up in a cemetery, confidently assuming that one awkward, goofy man and the thin, subservient figure beside him would be no problem.

Their deaths had been long and lingering, three more subjects for the ongoing experiment in what divided pain and pleasure.

There was nothing to be done about the cause—neither of them knew enough about micro-processes or even biology—but the  _effect_  could be modified.  The idea had resulted after a very long night, innocence and naivete eradicated to the screaming sounds that prompted orgasm after orgasm and continuous cries for more.  The more pain inflicted, the more pleasurable it had felt.

It was hard, exacting work, but trial and error had resulted in limited freedom.  So long as eyes full of permissive enjoyment watched, tentative ability had been restored.  The monster, leashed and dependent, was that much closer to reclamation.

All because of Master.

The exultant joy in long-denied actions had made them rougher, more violent than usual.  They had also been less thorough in their clean up, anxious to return home to. . . celebrate.

Which was why the skin rubbed by the bones of an arched foot was nearly black beneath curly brown hair.  Despite the lack of consistent blood flow, hours encased in leather with heavy weights attached had created deep bruises and small tears in the sensitive flesh.  If it had been safe enough to allow the whimpering screams that were barely held back, they’d be ringing down the walls with their pleasured agony.

Panic seized, heightening the pain, making it precious.  Discovery, previously only an added thrill, was now dangerously imminent.  Either midnight activities would be found out, twisted games exposed to those who would condemn them. . . or the activities would be curtailed, made furtive and occasional to protect their perpetrators.

Either way, there was great risk that the hot, burning pleasure of flesh and sustenance would be diminished, if not stopped outright.

That could not be allowed to happen.

It had taken work, hard work, and sacrifices to regain what should never have been lost.  It had taken weeks of training, giving, being taken, joy and pain melded into a single whole to reach this point and  _nothing_  could be allowed to jeopardize it.

Nothing.

Forcing thoughts past trembling torment and gripping panic, blue eyes were raised to search and hold brown.  Silent understanding passed between and slowly insides tightened in a different kind of fear relaxed.  Rage, deep and drenching, burning out of eyes still dilated to black.  Fear of being taken away was displaced with Master’s rage that anyone would dare try.

If dark eyes had not been locked on distorted features, a feline smile of smug superiority would have spread.  From naive loathing to lust-driven control and now to absolute ownership.

Wrist and neck, both bound in unbreakable iron, connected by invisible bonds.

Conversations continued to flow around them, but concern was washed away as muscles jerked and moved in faster motion.  Punishing rhythms sent borrowed blood pumping faster; sounds crowded deep in a tight throat, aching for release.  Blue eyes never moved from black, silently begging for permission, for the liberation that would tighten the iron around them both.  Let the metal bite into flesh, let it rub abrasions into smooth skin, anything.  Pain was pleasure and pleasure pain, the sting and rough and so  _good_ —

A wordless snarl, nearly a growl as good as those of unfettered days of dearly remembered, brought shooting pain streaking down flesh reddened and cut, scraped and blackened, to cause an explosion of silent, screaming pain and excruciating pleasure, melding, bleeding, streaming—

 Owned.

* * *

Muttered words, black and crackling, dropped from tightened lips like pebbles, scattered behind in their wake with physical remains.  Scuttling behind, always behind, eyes downcast and biddable, plotted and planned without the stygian fury.  Thoughts, gleeful and concerned by turns, circled around the invisible bite of sharp-edged metal, reveling in the icy touch.

No longer would it be silicon and micro-wires that held dominion, high tech gadgetry shorn away by the ancient power of cold iron.

Such a change needed to be rewarded and the discussion back where things were warm and cozy and homey and innocently safe had assured them of some time before their choices had to be made.  Not  _much_  time, a real threat drove maddened fear, but certainly enough that a suitably perverse celebration could occur.

Through the door and down the stairs.  Musty age, unclean despite repeated attempts, mixed with swirling dust and the scent of rutting male.  Intoxicating.  A warm, pulsing body threw itself upon the bed, arm over eyes, still muttering and planning just where to go and what to do.

Hidden by skin and bone and tensed muscle, a rapturous grin flickered briefly.  Then knees hit familiar lumps, crawling forward to bring a grasping, open mouth to find a thin, flattened brass.  Hard-won skill made the gesture easy, pulling metal teeth apart to release engorged flesh to slap against cotton.  More bites and pulls and thick denim was removed, legs kicking thoughtlessly to free ankles and toes.

Hands twisted, held by invisible bonds behind a still-clothed back, knees straining from the upright weight pushed down upon them, the celebration of thanks commenced.

Sharp tongue extended to brush the tender skin of the sac, teeth  _just_  pricking above and below.  Pull back, suction strong and rhythmic, before sinking back to try and take even more.  Throat muscles loosened and opened, releasing the breathy cries of choking joy.

Hands, damp with sweat, slammed into bleached hair, grabbing hold.  No effort was made to find freedom from the punishing grip, muscles twitched to move mouth and teeth and throat where desired.  Throat violated over and over as leaking flesh was thrust in and out and in again.

A litany of pleasure began, crooning, praising, abusing, using, raining down on ears held by curled fingers.  The words caused softened flesh to harden again; Master’s pleasure  _was_ pleasure, no matter how much physical pain might be involved.

The pressure changed, pulling  _up_  instead of forward and back.  Following the directions, the face was pulled towards the top of the bed, rounded globes of flesh, fattened through recent feasting, resting in cool comfort over burning flesh.

“Off.”

Hands moved from their locked position, tearing at fiber barriers, eager to feel that heat inside, abuse made joyous.  Burns, cuts, bruises, raw patches of skin rubbed rough; red, brown, yellow, green, bluepurpleblack all spread out along alabaster white.  Each mark a badge, proud and pleasing.

“Now.”

Lift up, sink down.  Borrowed blood, hot from excited friction, dripped from new tears, easing the tight passage up, making it slick and hurt and taut and  _good._   A groan of pure pleasure as legs tensed and moved, up and down with blinding speed.  Scarlet red spread across crisp black curls, spilling across the smooth planes of skin burned golden in the sun.

“We need to leave.”  The words were a benediction, the feeling of metal cruel with its touch, pulling and pushing and always commanding.  “Chicago.  New York.  Some place. . . big.”

Jackhammer thrusts, pounding agonized rapture into broken flesh.  Hot hands grabbed, pulling roughly on flesh too tender to bear such mistreatment.  Mewling cries turned into screams of pain.  Answering calls of numbing pleasure joined them, mingling their ecstasy in a disjointed hallelujah.

A howling scream and hot and cold gushed out in powerful bursts.

“Yes.”  A single word, the first in long days of silence, whispered against sweat-salt skin.  Pink tongue slipped out and began to lap away all secretions.  Gentling.  Soothing.  Praising.  Rasping against flushed skin, cooling the fiery inferno.  Encouraging sweet calm. . .

“Not L.A.,” a sleepy voice dictated.  “Angel could find us.  But some place big.  Loud.  People to kill. . . money to steal. . .”

Slumber took hold, the previous long night finally catching up.  It was not supposed to have been so long, but the silent grumbling of a stomach that no longer functioned had kept them hunting, hurting, killing long after exhaustion asserted its presence.

Movements meant for stalking prey brought a slim body away from the comfort of the snoring warmth and to a secret place, hidden in the wall.  Thick parchment, stained green, tumbled into waiting hands.  Long fingers sorted and counted, eyes cataloguing items scattered around the room—to be kept, to be sold, to be left.

Pleased with the results, a phone was raised and nocturnal contacts reestablished. 

* * *

It took two weeks to complete preparations, two weeks to plan their flight.  Arguments, surprisingly, over destination had players on opposite sides.  Youth wanted seedy underbelly, the darkness that would cloak their activities and offer them tentative protection.  Age wanted to show youth all the things a small town could not.  Art and history, though a history of psychotic violence and art created by bloody remains. . .  A compromise was eventually reached.

Two weeks and seeds of suspicion among those who had been friends began to sprout and bloom.  Confidence where there had been shame and humility; darkness where there had been warm, human light; violence instead of ineptitude; cruelty.  Manufactured distance from old bonds helped strengthen new, and all was in readiness.

Five o’clock on a Friday afternoon.  No plans, despite frequent calls growing more agitated with each dismissal.  Threats were now being offered, suspicion coalescing into fear.

Accurate fear.

“I’m bored.”  Rich tenor made silky and hard, unknowingly caressing satiny neck.  The bearer of that neck shivered, feeling metal bite into tender flesh.  Needing it.  Loving it.  Craving it.  “Show me something fun to do.”

That night was glorious.

Remains were found only in morning’s light, bile immediately joining the mess.  Hysterical girls made frantic accusations, tears and terror beneath every word, and even the lone male still remaining could not find anything—to hope for.

Old and worn, the girls were not told until later, much later.  That it was not claws and fangs that had torn two humans to pieces; human tools, human mind, human. . . touch had reveled in gory destruction, spreading it with maniacal glee.

Rescue turned to hunt.

Yet no trace was found.  Police in cities throughout the world would discover the makings of a horrifically bloody serial killer, exhibiting animalistic tendencies despite the logical precision—yet after a few weeks, a month, the deaths would stop and the suspects vanish.

Every night was a feast, blood and sex and pain and pleasure.  Every day an adventure, finding prey, hunting prey, spending stolen monies for whatever was desired.  When money was tight, a cool, sweet body would procure what was needed.  Fangs and knives carved a bloody swath down every path.

Time and testing weakened previously placed restraints.  A question was asked and answered; dying warmth became eternal cold.  The stinging pain, the icy pleasure, should have transferred the hold—but bonds of blood and pain, still dependent despite new freedoms, were harder to break.

When dark eyes opened and became yellow, the first hissing request was for tattoos.  Indulgent, this too was granted.  Wide silver circles were picked, the likeness of thick, aged metal.

One neck, pale from shadowed centuries, one wrist, still golden from fading exposure to day.

Both chained.  Both bound.

Both controlled.


End file.
